Breaking News: An Autozombiography by N. J. Hallard Page A

I’ve seen tractors coming down from this far up.’ I said. ‘We’ll be alright now.’
    From that point we could see the creeping urban mould of Worthing, and the notion of nature’s dominance over man disappeared pretty quickly. A large business park ate into the green of the downland with vast corrugated roofs hiding a DIY store and a supermarket. I hated both, but hypocritically Lou and I used both stores; Lou understandably balking at the thought of going to a greengrocers, a butchers, and a fishmongers after commuting home at seven in the evening; me because I needed screws and paint to make pub signs and I was a lazy arsehole. We were just doing what we were used to doing; what our parents did and probably what our grandparents wished they could do. I couldn’t help think that we’d been hoodwinked though – the smaller traders were being squeezed out by the big stores and their impossible economics of flying asparagus from Peru to England when it was in season here. It’s not like we didn’t know how to grow vegetables; we just couldn’t resist cheap ones when we were offered them. Lou and I had fought back by starting a tiny vegetable patch in front of my workshop and had already had carrots, wild rocket and tomatoes out of it. “Dig for Victory” was a long-forgotten sentiment. I learnt more and more about how to grow vegetables and where and when, but all the while Sainsbury’s was just at the top of our road curling a fat, cold finger at us, luring us inside like a portly Siren. Inside we all went, into the cool crisp cathedrals, oblivious to the millennia of trading history being throttled purple outside the doors. Except some of us weren’t oblivious, we were just hypocrites, which was even worse.
     
    Soon the track grew less steep as the golf course opened out to our right, and Al actually had to use the accelerator for the first time since Cissbury. The dusty chalk turned to wide, dry mud and eventually we were driving past the back gardens of houses. Some were grand old places, others were more recently built. One had a high concrete wall with ornate stone gates leading out onto the unassuming dirt track; fruit netting rose above some fences and mouldering garden waste lay to the sides, alongside the occasional long-browned Christmas tree. The odd farm building and horse field stood empty. We reached the end of the lane with high hedges on both sides and a good view onto a slice of A27, where we saw no moving traffic and heard no sound. Our house was one left turn at the end of the track, then the next right. That was it – Lou and I would be home. Al faced me.
    ‘ Let’s do it.’ We rumbled down the last few metres of the dusty track, accelerating all the time. Al spun the steering wheel, deliberately losing traction before taking us sideways onto the tarmac road - but then he stalled. He grinned and fumbled at the ignition, then took us haring past an overturned van as one or two figures turned to face us, skin milk-white in the moonlight. There were more up ahead. Headlights still off Al gunned towards our road, taking the right turn with a snap of the wheel and I saw three or four of them along the length of the street as we got nearer the house. Al hand-braked another right onto our drive – really a concrete front garden – and switched the engine off. Lou was eager.
    ‘ I need to pee.’
    ‘ Right, here’s the plan,’ I said. ‘I’ll open the front door, and only when it’s open do you two get out. Don’t forget the dogs.’
    ‘ We’re right behind you baby, just hurry up.’
    I did the breathing you do before you dive into water, then sprung out, slamming the car door behind me. I’d been too noisy, and down the road I saw heads snap round, open mouths slitting across pale oval faces. A groan sounded out.
    ‘ Oh shit.’
    I patted my pockets for the front door keys. Front left and right, back right, back left. Nothing - try again. Front left and right, back right, back